Memory Gospel
by Greenway
Summary: Three years ago Draco Malfoy disappeared, seemingly vanishing from the face of the earth. Deep in the Sahara Desert a secret lies buried – the secret to his salvation. Sequel to Wash Away. DMHG
1. Prologue

Author's Note 

_I want to keep this brief. First of all my apologies that this was such a long time coming. I never lost my passion for this tale or for these characters, I merely focused my writing elsewhere for a while (a long while, sadly). I also want to send out a huge thank you to all my reviewers, those who have stayed with the story in my absence and those new readers whose support contributed to my return. It means the world to me._

_So yes, this is the long-awaited sequel to Wash Away and for those of you who have not read that story I strongly suggest you do. Welcome back and please enjoy._

* * *

There were many secrets in the sands of the Sahara desert, but often they were considered little more than the wild whisperings of lost souls. Indeed, such people felt at a home here in the despairing, desolate expanse for they believed that what they bled into the sand would die there, forsaking all other oaths and bonds. So while rumours travelled on the wind to every city and sandy cesspit the locals dared call home, they were merely tall tales on which nothing ought to be wasted but a passing fancy.

It was for this reason that a man of the west, a man with a large camera hanging from his neck in a not so subtle display of his intent, was not simply ignored but largely reviled, and also why his inability to find the answers he sought had little whatsoever to do with the rather sizeable language barrier. The Arabic word for outsider sounded somewhat like phlegm caught at the back of someone's throat, and it was with his last desperate thread of hope that Timothy Franklin clung to the idea that it was the language itself that was to blame and not his intrusion.

By the end of his second month in the broken city of Béchar, that hope had all but fled. His purse was running empty; the hot, sleepless nights were beginning to take their toll; and he was about as close to an epiphany as he was to the sea. There was an old proverb that originated in this town that spoke of the hell he had fallen into. Roughly translated it said: if you do not find despair here then surely despair will find you. Everything was a joke to these people. Everything and nothing.

So he did as he was accustomed – he quit. Marriage, fatherhood, friendship had all been dropped rather easily and unceremoniously from his life, and so he saw little harm in throwing obligation on the pyre. Such reckless disregard for his own future was not a matter to be taken lightly. In fact, Timothy believed such an occasion ought to be commemorated with a toast. And so he crawled towards the nearest and, coincidentally, filthiest watering hole in the area, ordered up a glass of what tasted like snake's piss and raised it into the air.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he bellowed, spilling liquor onto his sleeve as he swayed his arm about, "whilst none of you can understand me I have, over the last month or so, grown a place in my heart just for you." He took a swallow of the drink, grimaced, and continued his toast. "A place containing an unreserved hatred of every single miserable soul in this shithole of a town." He stayed silent then, at least until he had downed the snake piss. Then he stood once more, held open his arms and said in a most jovial tone, a tone punctuated by an ear to ear smile, "May you all suffer and die in the most horrific ways imaginable."

If anyone there was familiar with Timothy's native tongue they kept it close to their chest. His outburst was as trivial to them as the ghosts he chased. They watched him leave, they made their quiet jokes, but what they had not expected was for him to stop by the door, going quite still – rigid, almost – and staring across the room at an old blind man with bandages around his eyes to protect what health he had left from the unforgiving elements.

Timothy approached slowly, almost tiptoeing as if with any sudden exertion his heart would explode. There on the old man's hand and practically winking at him it was… hope, for lack of a word that better suited their surroundings. He fell into the seat opposite the old man and Timothy was scarcely breathing, stunned as he was and suddenly without the wherewithal to even acknowledge the man's quiet, lilting tone – Arabic, of course, but no doubt aimed in his direction.

As with anything of value in an impoverished town, the contrast was quite incredible. Timothy touched the old man's hand and squeezed gently when he felt resistance. It was a risky move in a hostile place, but just as readily as he _quit_, he was prepared to embrace this hope and _burn_ if cruel fate deemed it necessary. The old man stayed his hand and when Timothy lightly squeezed his finger and prodded the silver ring attached then he began to speak in Arabic, and though quiet and foreign to his ears it was undoubtedly a rant. He listened, he listened like a man who hadn't listened in months, for so surrounded was he by hostility and foreign tongues, and eventually a pattern began to emerge, a collection of sounds he recognised only in repetition. And when the man had stopped, and this was only after quite some time, Timothy repeated these words as best as he could, desperately urging the old man, trying for the first time ever to bridge that language barrier and make sense of this, his only hope.

With his eyes concealed, and the lower half of face thick covered by a bushy beard, facial expressions were particularly difficult to decipher. The reaction to those repeated words, however, could not be misconstrued, and it was with disgust and disdain, but always a lingering note of fear, that he opened his mouth to continue. But Timothy averted his eyes, he peered downwards at the old man's hand and his finger wrapped in the finest silver – silver carved into the meandering shape of a serpent, and in that serpent's eye an emerald jewel, and in its mouth, about to be devoured, the silver letter _M_.

Then the words crashed over him like waves lapping at the shore for he was too fragile, too easily moved, but make no mistake he _heard_. Still, his silence was suffocating and so the old man, sensing this, reached out, squeezed Timothy's hand and uttered those words again.

"_The white devil_."


	2. Chapter I: The Invisible Man

It was the sort of day Hermione Granger longed for. It was peaceful for starters, as very little noise found its way into her courtyard garden, and so the only thing left to stir her from her reading, or from her daydreaming, was the rustling of the tree overhead and the occasional fall of blossom.

It being a Saturday was also significant. Not only was it a day off, but it was a day in which she need not fret over her work, leaving Goblin Rebellions and House Elf Liberations to those with yet more insignificant social existences than her. It was the way she wished it, of course, but she still acknowledged it with a sort of wistful smile that others might have mistaken for a deep regret.

She lived alone in a small, two-story house just outside London, and continued to do so despite many well intended requests by her friends to move in together and share a living space. They did this, she believed, because they thought her lonely, but she was quite content, and quite sure in any case that a housemate would not chase away her troubles.

Of course, she was not entirely alone. The reminder of which came as she peered over the edge of her book to see a large, bandy-legged feline covered in long, thick ginger hair and ready to pounce on an oblivious looking sparrow picking through the soil in her garden.

"Crookshanks!" she cried, her voice filling the garden, making both the predator and its prey jump in fright. "Bad Crookshanks, stop that!"

The cat regarded her with a most indignant expression, not bothering to struggle when she picked him up and carried him inside but rather staring at her as if to remind Hermione just how much of an inconvenience she could sometimes be. His nightmares would be filled with that rubbish scrapped from a tin and into his bowl, and he had half a mind to do as a dog would do and chew to pieces her favourite pair of shoes just to spite her. But then all of a sudden she had sat him on her bed and was smiling at him, scratching him on that spot behind his ear that only she and that Potter bloke seemed to know about. All was forgiven – at least until she chased away his next meal.

Hermione, having been distracted from her reading and wary that other obligations lay ahead, found herself standing in front of her bedroom mirror, a rather rare occurrence when it lasted more than a few moments, and holding various outfits against herself in what seemed an almost pointless attempt to find the one that best suited her. It was over a year since she had last gone clothes shopping, the reason being that after _twelve_ hours spent traipsing up and down Oxford Street with Pansy Parkinson the experience rather lost its allure. Pansy still regularly requested she join her on these little jaunts into Muggle London, but the former Slytherin girl was also smart enough to know when to take no for an answer.

"I really don't want to look like I'm trying too hard," she said to her reflection and Crookshanks, being the only other living creature in the room, sat up briefly and made a mewing sound. "I am _not _desperate. I do _not_ want to be fixed up with anyone. It's just a party. There's nothing wrong with being alone."

Half an hour and a short, sharp owl to Pansy Parkinson later and her friend was stood there with her by the mirror, reaching so deep into Hermione's wardrobe that she half expected her to find Narnia.

"This one looks nice," Pansy encouraged, holding a somewhat short, black dress against Hermione's lithe frame. "Very classy but you'll still turn heads."

Hermione sighed, took the dress and gave her friend an imploring look. "I don't want to turn heads, Pansy. And you know _why_."

"No, actually, I don't know _why_," she replied immediately. "I know _who _and that's it. Three years later and I'm still waiting for the _why._"

"It's too ridiculous to put into words."

Pansy led Hermione over to the bed, placed the dress down beside them and wrapped a comforting arm around her. "Then be as ridiculous as you need. I want to hear it."

Hermione sighed again, this time rather irritably, but eventually, and despite her wringing hands, she elaborated. "I mean, how can I move on? It's like he's haunting me. You're going to say this sounds silly – Merlin knows it does – but I have this feeling that I can't explain. Like he and I were waiting, pushing and pulling, yes, but waiting to see who left first. He did, just as I knew he would, but it didn't feel like the end. Perhaps I've borrowed too many sappy books from your collection but I can't help but think that he left with the promise that I would follow and that I would find him some way, somehow. Again, I know it's silly," she turned towards her friend with a despairing look, "but I truly believe that if I'd have left he would have found me eventually."

"You're right, Hermione," Pansy deadpanned and then paused a moment. "That _is _silly."

Hermione turned away, attempting to stifle her amusement, before spinning back around and gently shoving her friend until she was teetering off the edge of the bed.

"As helpful as ever, Parkinson," she grumbled, picking up the dress and disappearing off into the bathroom. "What time did Ginny say to be there?" she added, calling through the thin wood of the bathroom door.

"Oh, I don't know," Pansy replied, distracted as she was by her own reflection in the mirror. She had readied herself early. Early enough, in fact, to give her date the cold shoulder the moment Hermione sent her distress call and still not miss a beat. "Seven thirty, maybe. I suppose all the Gryffindors will be there on the dot, playing musical chairs and sipping fruit-based, non-alcoholic punch."

The sound of Hermione laughing from the other side of the door brought a smile to Pansy's face. Such a sound was always welcome as, in her opinion, her friend worked far too hard. The Ministry bled her dry and often, it seemed, she encouraged it. It was not unusual for Pansy to turn up on a weeknight, a bottle of wine in hand, only to see Hermione about to be crushed by the enormous mountain of paperwork teetering over her. Hermione, it appeared, believed the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures could not function without her.

Pansy had twice offered to pay for them to go on vacation. And not just any vacation, either, but a year long, around the world trip, the escape they both desperately needed. Hermione because she was depressed, even if she hid it well, and overworked to the point of exhaustion; and Pansy because since she had discovered that _yes_, she had friends and _yes_, it was real, she enjoyed nothing more than spoiling and spending time with them.

"How do I look?" asked Hermione as she shuffled through the bathroom door, pulling off a demure pirouette when her friend continued to gawk. "Classy… but I'll still turn heads, right?" she added with a roll of her eyes.

"Every head in the room if you're not careful," was the response as Pansy gave her friend a decidedly sly wink.

OOO

They arrived just after eight o'clock, Pansy having convinced Hermione that it was absolutely vital they finish off their bottle of wine. Feeling sufficiently frivolous, Pansy gave a jaunty knock on the door and after a moment they were greeted with the smiling faces of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.

"You know, we have booze here," Harry said in way of greeting, his arm wrapped securely around Ginny's waist, "you didn't have to get smashed on the way."

Pansy waved away his light-hearted objections and pushed herself between them, grabbing Ginny by the arm and dragging her into the house. Harry stayed put and offered his somewhat tipsy friend a gentle smile.

"I remember when you were just an innocent little girl on the Hogwarts Express searching for Neville Longbottom's toad. And now here you are on my doorstep, boozed up and looking absolutely beautiful, if you don't mind my saying."

Hermione rolled her eyes but returned her friend's smile. "Feeling nostalgic are we, Harry? Is that what one does at an engagement party?"

"I don't know," he replied amusedly, shrugging and indicating with a nod she should follow him inside, "I suppose we'll find out."

The house Harry and Ginny shared was quite stunning. It was located in a small village by the sea and their cottage was spacious but cosy, leading out into a large garden that opened up onto a sandy beach. It was picturesque, more so given that Hermione was quite sure she had never seen Harry or Ginny happier in all the time she had known them. Of course, it was also bittersweet, but she tried not to cling to this realisation. Perhaps she was being silly again but whatever _this_ was, whatever word people needed to use to describe it, she believed it was, in her case, something quite unattainable. It had slipped beyond her grasp and into the ether, leaving behind only a few measly words and an immense heartache.

"You know who that is over there talking to Luna Lovegood? His name is Aaron Lewis and he's–"

"Don't you _dare_, Harry Potter," Hermione interjected irritably, "I'm not in the mood."

Chuckling lightly, Harry held up his hands and slowly backed away. "Okay, okay. But when you're the old cat lady clipping articles out of the Daily Prophet, don't say I didn't at least _try_."

Hermione's lips twisted into a reluctant smile for she had no desire to encourage Harry's warped sense of humour. Eventually she found her way over to Ginny and Pansy, clucking like a pair of hens and quickly pouring her a glass of wine so tall she was afraid she might drown in it.

"To Harry and Ginny," Pansy said quietly, raising her glass in a private toast between three friends. "And to happily ever after and all that nonsense." They brought their glasses together and they drank, enjoying their moment alone before the party enveloped them.

OOO

By midnight at least half the guests had said their goodbyes, given their gifts and departed. Only Harry and Ginny's closest friends remained, as well as those too inebriated even to stumble home. Harry, Ron and several others were out on the beach playing an impromptu, drunken game of Quidditch which, while certainly good-natured seemed rather messy and almost… violent. Still, the laughter that carried over from the beach and into the garden, where Hermione stood, leant against a tree and alternating between watching the game and staring into space, reminded her why she loved these people – Harry, Ron, Ginny, Pansy, the Weasleys, the Longbottoms, and many more who did not immediately spring to mind but who nonetheless held a special place in her heart.

Through the kitchen window behind her she could just about make out the voices of Ginny, Pansy and Hannah Longbottom. She had earlier excused herself from their conversation, feeling utterly distracted and not wishing to seem rude. It was why she hated drinking. She was fine when drunk, easily amused and not easily bothered, but when she came down off that high and sobriety began to invade her mind she caught herself overthinking literally everything and working herself into a frenzy. Her job, how hard she worked and how little difference it at times seemed to make. Her friends who, much as she loved them, much as they only wanted what was best for her, managed to inadvertently remind her of what she _truly_ wanted. And then _him_ and his handsome face, his silver tongue, his capacity for both great tenderness, fleeting as it was, and immense cruelty; the depths of his twisted soul, his desperate heart and, finally, a scar that did not disgust or frighten her as he once believed but that, ultimately, only made her want him more. His imperfections defined him and she craved them all.

When she looked out into space, over the dark sea, the inky cloak overhead littered with stars, she wondered where he was, what he was doing at that exact moment. If, perhaps, he too stopped and stared, wondered about the past and the future, what could have been and what now would never come to pass. And while it saddened her greatly, it never brought her to tears. It was simply a heavy heart, dryness in her throat, and the very real fear that he had taken something from her, something significant, and he meant not to return it. She laughed wryly and smiled despite herself, looking up at the stars and speaking in a low voice.

"I never did share your talent for self-delusion."

She turned from the sky, having found within its depths no solace, and made for the kitchen, pulling her jacket tight around her shoulders as a gust of wind suddenly blew through the air. Before she stepped inside, however, the hooting of an owl gave her cause to turn and the creature glided through the night sky, quite empathic in its flight, and landed on a windowsill nearby. She looked around, at first unsure, but the creature was staring right at her (right through her, in fact) and there, hanging from its spindly little leg was a thin roll of parchment. Hermione approached, swallowing the lump in her throat, attempting to still her trembling bottom lip with her hand.

It was from work, she assured herself. There was a sudden break in negotiations with the Goblins and they needed her to come in right away. That was it. That had to be it. The alternative was frightening – exhilarating, absolutely – but so utterly terrifying that she was in no state to confront it. The owl made a cawing sound and lifted its leg, giving an impatient flap of its sizeable wings and urging her forward. She was moving but she could not remember her brain sending the signal to her body. Everything was still. The laughter faded. The voices died. It seemed even as if the sea had suddenly stopped lapping at the shore. She wanted this. One way or another, she wanted this.

She snatched at the note and squeezed it in her hand, seeking strength. The irony was for the moment lost on her, all those little notes back and forth, declarations of love and loathing, and again, three years later, three years apart, such misery, a despairing loneliness like a hole in the heart, and again it came down to a single scrap of parchment. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she unfurled the note before her eyes and devoured the scrawl.

_He's alive._

_TF_


	3. Chapter II: Happily Ever After

"Hermione, slow down!" Pansy pleaded, head bobbing up and down as she tried to force herself into her friend's line of sight.

Hermione was, however, far too preoccupied with stuffing the contents of her wardrobe, of her bedroom and, indeed, of her life, into a suitcase that was much too small. She was breathing heavily, perspiration pooling at her brow, and whatever force had possessed her and brought about this frenzy did not look as if it would let go any time soon.

"Ask yourself what you're doing," Pansy continued, voice panicked as she felt dangerously underqualified to be dealing with what looked to be a nervous breakdown, "and what you think this will achieve. He's _gone_. He doesn't want to be found. He doesn't want us… _any_ of us. I hate myself for saying this but it's the truth: he doesn't want _you_."

Hermione stopped and closed her eyes, clutching in her hand a dress that would be of no use on her travels. She was so used to the voice of reason coming from within, loud and insistent, steering her clear of mistakes _she_ could not afford to make. For Pansy Parkinson to be that voice of reason, well it frightened the life out of her. Much as she loved Pansy, the girl was not known for her level-head.

It was an insane path she had started down and yet knowing what awaited her, she could not stop.

"_I _found him," she said finally, a strange calmness to her tone. "It means he's out there, Pansy."

"_Yes_, and he's running," Pansy spat, making no effort to hide her bitterness. "And hiding. He's a coward and he won't ever change. You are my friend. My _best _friend," she added, speaking slowly and stressing every syllable. "I can't let you chase after your own undoing."

Then there was silence as Hermione stared at the wall, feeling like an utter coward. Pansy, in what she would later acknowledge as the bravest act of her twenty-one years, never let her gaze waver, eyes boring into the back of her friend's head, and when the silence lingered she placed her hand on Hermione's shoulder and gently squeezed.

"_Please_," Pansy urged, her voice breaking. "Just _please_ don't do th–"

"I love him."

At those three small words Pansy felt the air being sucked right out of her and she slumped backwards onto the edge of bed. They were her words – the words of a desperate and confused little girl in love with a monster. There was no answer. No counter to that argument.

_Three years._

Pansy replayed every minute of every day in her head. How had she been so foolish? All this time she believed Hermione was undergoing some ill-advised mourning period, but it was not _loss_ that caused her to despair but _absence_, a cruel promise and the belief that he might one day return. It had been so easy to convince herself that Hermione was just waiting for Mr. Right to come along so she could finally move on. The witch was much too smart to fall into that monster's trap and not be able to navigate an escape route. Pansy was used to being wrong but not quite so accustomed to such devastating repercussions. Her first real friend and she had failed her spectacularly.

Before either of them was forced to deal with the uncomfortable silence, footsteps echoed through the house. Harry Potter was stood in the doorway, leaning most of his weight into it, in fact, breathless, somewhat tipsy and wondering why it looked like a bomb had just gone off in Hermione's bedroom.

"Uh, knock, knock," he began tentatively, eyeing first Pansy, who had been quite insistent when she left the party on the nature of the emergency, and then Hermione, who was currently staring out of the window onto the street, wringing her hands and looking so utterly lost.

"Talk some sense into her, Harry," Pansy insisted quietly, touching him gently on the shoulder as she passed.

Harry moved cautiously through the room, tiptoeing over an underwear drawer that had somehow made its way onto the floor and Pansy's handbag, the contents of which were scattered everywhere. When he reached her side he stood in silence a moment before giving her the gentlest of nudges with his shoulder.

"So what are we staring at?"

Silence.

"What's so interesting, huh?" he persisted.

"See that house across the road?" she asked, pointing with her index finger at the two story place directly across from them.

"Yeah."

"Last year a couple moved in. They were about our age. As they were carrying the boxes of their stuff from the street and into their house they looked so utterly and so… _impossibly_ happy. They couldn't stop smiling at each other. And you know what, Harry?"

"What?" he asked quietly, struck suddenly by a foreboding feeling, like ice water dripping down the back of his neck.

She hesitated for a moment. "I didn't wish them the best. I didn't want them to live happily ever after. I was so… _angry_. So jealous. I hated them. I can't remember their names or what they looked like but I _hated_ them. And it wasn't just that they were together or that they were carefree, but they were living their lives. Whatever heartache had come before, whatever monsters were in their past, they had moved on. They had found a way."

While distinctly aware of _what_ she was saying, and the disturbing implications, it was her tone more than anything that unnerved him. It was cold, distant, removed from anything he had heard from her before. He wanted to turn, take her by the shoulders and shake her out of this despondency. But he too was still, shocked into silence, forced to watch as his best friend flirted with a dangerous precipice.

"One day, I heard screams coming from across the road," she continued, her unblinking stare fixed on the house. "The whole street heard. For almost an hour I ignored it. They had their happiness and now they could have their misery. Then I heard the sound of glass breaking and finally I drew the curtains and looked out through the window just like everybody else. He was dragging her by the wrist as she kicked and screamed, as she used up every last ounce of fight she had in her. She was drunk. They both were. And when he let go of her wrist and left her out on the curb he didn't even look back at her. He simply… closed the door. He moved on."

Feeling something catch in his throat, a dangerous cocktail of fear and uncertainty, he turned finally and took her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes and frowning deeply.

"Hermione, listen to me," he began but no words followed. She was in a dark place, a place she could not navigate alone. He wanted so desperately to reach into the darkness and save her, but when he looked into her eyes he realised she was looking right through him. She was seeing that woman on the curb, a teary, drunken mess. Either that or she was looking at _him_. Harry knew for a fact she hadn't forgotten his name or his face.

"Let me come with you," he said quite seriously.

She laughed a hollow sort of laugh and smiled sadly at him.

"No."

Harry wanted to scream. It had been many years since he had felt like a mere spectator to his own life, watching and waiting but unable to _do_ anything. And while like Pansy he blamed himself he knew, ultimately, it was foolish to do so. Not only was Hermione the most intelligent witch he knew but she was wilful and courageous, a true Gryffindor. It was clear to see, though, and had been for a number of years, that a part of her was missing, lost, perhaps stolen away, and much as they tried they knew they would never fill that void.

"I love you, Hermione," he said, leaning forward and kissing his friend gently on the forehead.

"I know you do, Harry."

And yet all she could think of was that final note in his elegant scrawl. Never had someone embodied both love and misery quite like Draco Malfoy.

OOO

Harry returned downstairs to see Pansy and Ginny staring pensively at one another while Ron Weasley, stood on the far side of the room, berated an ancient looking television set.

"Work, damn you!" the redhead whined, slamming his fist against the wooden veneer. "I've pressed all the buttons. Why won't it work?"

Ron's head whipped around when he realised Harry had entered the room. He quickly lost interest in the television set, one eyebrow rising, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hopeful smile, as his ever expressive face said all the things he could not.

"She's fine, mate," Harry offered, ignoring the fiery look Pansy was giving him. "Just needs some time, I think."

"Alright, okay. But what's this even about?" asked Ron, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "And why am I always the last to know?"

Ginny was wearing a glum look as she turned to face her older brother. "I think Hermione is a better actress than we give her credit for. But–" and she stopped suddenly, offering a sad shake of her head. "Let's not do this. Let's not talk about her behind her back."

Harry fell into the seat beside Ginny and wrapped his arm around her. None of them knew what to say after that – in fact, they could barely bring themselves to look at one another. Besides Pansy, of course, who looked very much like she wanted to lash out at someone or something.

"This is madness," said Pansy, rising to her feet after a very long and very awkward few minutes had passed. "I won't let her do this. I _won't._"

Pansy stormed out of the room and up the stairs, putting on such a display that there wasn't a stroppy teenager alive who wouldn't have been proud. By the time she reached Hermione's bedroom she felt like a ball of energy ready to explode, all her resentment and pent up anger finally bubbling dangerously close to the surface. But when she saw her friend moving slowly about her room, quite removed from the frantic, possessed creature she had seen scarcely half an hour earlier, she simply couldn't bring herself to unleash the deluge of emotions onto her.

"I know what you're going to say, Pansy," Hermione began as she busied herself by folding her clothing and place it neatly into the suitcase, "but you don't need to tell me I'm a fool. I'm already well aware."

When Hermione finally looked up and caught her friend's gaze, she was reminded not of that day in the library, the seed from which their friendship blossomed, but rather the many cruel taunts and vile nicknames that Pansy had bestowed on her over the years. How could she stand there, herself the personification of Hermione's empathy and willingness to forgive, and not understand why she loved a man who had hurt her so?

When Hermione fell asleep at night she thought of him. She remembered his lost soul, his desperate heart. She remembered those kisses, remembered falling asleep in his arms and waking up so very alone. She remembered the insults, but she remembered too that look in his eye, hope and desire that in retrospect seemed so poorly hidden, a cry for help that only she saw because it was for her alone to answer. Of all her relationships before and since, both platonic and romantic, nothing had ever felt quite so real.

She did not want a one night stand. She did not want a friend to become her husband simply because neither of them had a better offer. She did not want to be Mrs Wrong to her Mr Right. She did not want six months of untold happiness and then to be dragged out on the curb kicking and screaming.

Hermione wanted his desperate heart. She wanted it now and she wanted it forever.

"Don't be afraid of what might happen, Pansy," Hermione said softly, "I'm not. When we were at war we lived by our hope."

"A _fool's_ hope," she responded bitterly, her whole face feeling suddenly tense.

"But hope nonetheless."

They looked at one another and both forced themselves to smile. Hermione thought this was perhaps as close as anyone would get to understanding her point of view, but when Pansy suddenly crossed the room and wrapped her in a tight embrace, the added burden weighing heavy on her heart seemed to lift a little.

"I'm not going anywhere," Pansy insisted, as much to herself, it seemed, as to Hermione, "when you get back from your crazy voyage I'll be right here – no matter what."

Pansy lifted her chin and squeezed her friend. Never had she had a better reason to cry than this and as the tears began to flow she knew that someway, somehow, and even if Hermione was not, _she_ was doing the right thing in standing by her friend.

"Okay," Hermione whispered in response, "tell the others that I love them. And that I'm sorry but I had to go."

From Pansy's point of view, Hermione seemed to move in slow motion. She fastened the suitcase, grabbed her wand, her bag and flashed a smile. It was then that she disappeared and Pansy simply stood there, a rather blank expression on her face, as she tried to commit this moment to memory. She had a feeling that, one way or another, this was the night on which everything changed.


	4. Chapter III: Tiny Cities Made of Ashes

It was in the early hours of the morning when Hermione arrived in Béchar, the heat as blistering as one would expect of the Algerian summertime. Timothy was there to meet her, a short, fair-haired man with a wide face and always with something of an impatient look about him. They shook hands in the town square, Hermione asked her questions and received few answers, and eventually they parted, deciding they both would need some sleep ahead of what promised to be a long day.

It was Hermione who woke first, having barely managed to drift off for more than a few minutes at a time. It was another hour before they set off along the town's main street, the unforgiving sun at their backs and a dry, almost suffocating heat in the air. The effect was lessened with spellwork, but only so much could be done.

"His name is Amar Demsiri," Timothy explained, relenting despite knowing very little himself. "According to the few English speakers in Béchar, he has lived here all his life."

"And he's blind?" asked Hermione, her compassion shining through in her tone.

Timothy nodded. "Since he was a young boy, apparently. No one knows how old he is exactly – sixty, seven, eighty; I wouldn't be surprised either way."

"And you believe he's telling the truth?"

"I _believe_, Miss Granger, that he has nothing whatsoever to gain by lying."

"And the ring?"

"It's exactly as you described. How he came to be in possession of it, however, and indeed his relationship to Mr Malfoy, remains a mystery. Every time I tried to get answers out of him he would simply smile and say that he would only talk to _you_."

"_Me?!_" she replied incredulously, head whipping around. "But he doesn't even _know_ me."

"Oh, I think he does. It is not by chance that he came upon that ring. And I believe it is not by chance that I found him."

"What, so you think this was a set-up?" she asked, stunned by the implication.

"Not a set-up, no," he replied, shaking his head and pursing his lips. "But if everything you've told me of Draco Malfoy is true, and given what I know of this town, I have to think that if he wished to disappear entirely he could have done so. The trail is faint but I'm almost positive it was knowingly left behind."

Hermione nodded and carefully regarded the man. He was a strange character who she had come to know quite by accident. Timothy had once worked for the Daily Prophet, a talented investigative journalist with a reputation for breaking big stories but, also, widely known amongst his peers for his dangerous disregard of boundaries, both on a personal and professional level. There was nothing _unfair_ about his dismissal. It was his third strike, having arranged illegal surveillance in the office of the Minister for Magic, and by all accounts he was lucky just to lose his job and not end up in Azkaban. The tale had come first from Luna Lovegood, chief editor of the ever-eccentric Quibbler, the Prophet's _only_ rival, and then Harry Potter, a far more reliable source whose story was similar only without any mention of the wrapspurts Luna believed lived inside Timothy's head.

Given who she was trying to find, and the desperation with which she took to the cause, it would have been unreasonable of Hermione to raise any moral objections against Timothy's methods. So she paid him, and she paid him well, told him everything she knew, shared pages and pages of notes which went some way to proving her _own_ reputation as a perennial overachiever, and sent him out into the wide world with every lead she had and a very simple mandate: find Draco Malfoy.

They met Amar on a shaded terrace, much to Hermione's relief. The view looked out over a seemingly endless stretch of desert with no landmarks or other signs of life. It made for a rather foreboding atmosphere which the modest furniture and minimalist decoration did little to abate.

Amar had trimmed his beard and put on his finest clothes but the filthy rags around his eyes remained. Hermione looked at him and even forced a smile, though knowing full well such a gesture was lost on him. Timothy lifted his hand and signalled, and after a moment a young man came from the bar area with a tray of drinks and took a seat at the table next to Amar.

"Hermione," Timothy began, "this is Yassine. His English is quite impressive."

The young man gave a nod, apparently with no objections to that appraisal. Hermione offered another smile but quickly returned her attention to Amar, uninterested in the glass of wine placed before her.

"Tell him hello," said Hermione, trying to keep her voice steady and maintain some sense of decorum. "And that I appreciate him meeting with me."

Her words were relayed in Arabic and Amar softly smiled as he reached forward and took a sip of his wine.

"Ask him how he came to meet Draco Malfoy."

Again the question was relayed and this time Amar answered; but the answer clearly didn't sit well with the Yassine who took a long pause, seemingly mulling the interpretation over.

"He says it is not that simple," he replied, "and that–" he paused, struggling for the right word, "that _trust_ must be established."

"Trust?" she repeated.

"Yes," he said nodding, "he asks: are you Hermione Granger?"

"Yes," she responded, quite emphatically, "who else would I be?"

When Yassine translated this Amar began to laugh and spoke again.

"He says there are many who might search for this man," Yassine relayed, "debt collectors, loose women, thieves and murderers. But there is only one person to whom he can speak. And that, he hopes, is you."

Hermione swallowed the lump rising in her throat, trying to for the moment ignore any and all implications attached to that little declaration.

"My name is Hermione Granger," she insisted, but when this was translated Amar only shook his head and replied quietly, going into some detail.

"He says he trusts nothing, least of all the tongue of a Western woman. _But_," he continued, despite the none too pleasant looks he was getting from both Timothy and Hermione, "he will give you an opportunity to prove yourself. _One_ opportunity. If you answer his question correctly he will tell you everything he knows. But if you fail he will leave this place and the knowledge will go with him to the grave."

Hermione's jaw set and she had a determined look about her. "What's his question?"

Amar and Yassine conversed briefly and then the younger man asked, "What were his last words to you?"

Hermione did not need to search for an answer. It was there, right before her eyes, as vivid a memory as she could recall – his elegant scrawl; the colour and smell of the ink; the little imperfections of the parchment; and, most of all, falling asleep with it clutched in her palm. Oh, there was no doubt Draco had chosen his question wisely. Without any embarrassment or acknowledgement of the fact she was sharing such private words with two strangers, Hermione began to respond.

"The beloved are the most miserable of all," and she paused, closing her eyes, feeling suddenly like a puppet spouting off some self-fulfilling prophecy, a product of his madness, of his desperate heart, that he, in his absence, had ensured would come to pass. She lifted her chin, aware that Amar was waiting, aware too that he knew what words would come next, and took a deep breath. "I _know_."

The answer seemed to satisfy Amar who smiled and bowed his head. Hermione, encouraged by this reaction, slowly inched forward in her seat.

"So tell me," she implored him, "where is Draco Malfoy?"

When this question was relayed to Amar he remained quite stoic, contemplating his answer for a moment before responding.

"He says that the tale is too long," Yassine offered, "and that he hasn't the heart to tell you it himself."

Hermione's head lifted and her brows creased but Yassine waved his hand in an attempt to reassure her.

"But he adds," Yassine continued, "that while he cannot tell that tale, he is a man of his word. He respects you. And so, if you will allow it, he will _show_ you the answers you seek."

Hermione starred, somewhat wide-eyed, first at Amar and then at Yassine. She did not doubt Draco's involvement. After all, that little _test_ was of as much use to her as it was to him. One thing gnawed at her, however, and it was not being asked to wait. What harm was one more day after three long years? Rather, she could think only of what was left unsaid and _why_. What mess was Draco in? What new sins had he committed since last she saw him?

"Tomorrow, then, Miss Granger?" Yassine confirmed, leaning forward slightly.

"Yes," she replied distractedly, "tomorrow."

The return walk to their hotel felt like an out of body experience. Even as they stepped out onto the street, huge dust clouds kicking up around their feet and the midday haze stretching as far the eye could see, she hardly had the wherewithal to walk straight let alone acknowledge her companion. There was fear festering in the pit of stomach, and she had only her hope to help wash away her paranoid tendencies. Eventually Timothy bucked up the courage to speak.

"Are you okay, Miss Granger?" he asked.

"Fine," she stated blankly, "And please, call me Hermione."

"Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," she replied, staring straight forward. "Don't worry, Timothy. I won't be suffering from buyer's remorse."

"That's not exactly what I meant," he persisted.

"I know. And thank you. You've been a great help."

Hermione excused herself the moment they reached the hotel, offering a forced smile and immediately locking herself away in her room. For three years she had been in a strange, almost stasis-like frame of mind, and this close to a resolution the sense of isolation only intensified. She was scarcely alone besides when she slept and yet not _together_ or able to connect with anyone, at least not in the way she (or, indeed, _they_) intended. Her friends coddled her, believing good company was the cure for loneliness, but often she felt like an intruder in their lives, a burden for them to bear. A friend, yes, but an afterthought. It was silly, because the love they undoubtedly had for her was reciprocated, but she was consumed by what was missing and, ever the academic, unable to shake the idea that her loss was only a _perceived_ absence, blossomed from the seeds he planted all those years ago.

Though she was considered the brightest witch of her age, she had thought of him many, many times over the years. No, he never scored higher marks than her, and he did not read more books or gave a greater grasp of magical lore – but he was _clever_. Achingly clever. Dangerously clever. And even as she seemed on the verge of a breakthrough, she was struck by the very real possibility that this was just another game of his – a game he was bound to win.

As she settled into bed that night she was reminded of Pansy's question. What did she hope to achieve? Her idealism was not dead but he had twisted it to shape his reflection. Of course, she was under no illusions and did not expect a teary, heartfelt, hugs and kisses reunion. Her reason for searching out Draco Malfoy was not for a hand to hold while they sailed off towards their happily ever after. The _real_ reason she had gone to such great lengths, both in terms of spending and her own exhaustive research, was because she had, all those years ago, felt what it was like to love and be loved, and while it was the sort of sentimental nonsense he would have scoffed at, the truth remained that no feeling compared.

Brief, yes, and undoubtedly painful, but exquisite too – she was filled with a breathlessness that only he could satisfy, and his every gentle caress was felt for days. It was frightening and confusing, it left her in a state of frenzy, but when she was around him again those feelings faded. He had suffered, and he was broken, almost ruined, but she did not want to do as cliché would dictate and fix him. She realised that she wanted him exactly as she found him. That was the man she had grown to care for; at first pitying him, but that pity developed into genuine sympathy and then affection, and before she knew it he consumed her thoughts and dreams.

His attempts to push her away were _not_ taken lightly. She always felt the sting. It was a defence mechanism, though, and part of a façade that even he did not fully comprehend. It was there, however, for the same reason he wore a scar on his wrist – because it _hurt_. Every _single_ time, it hurt. And he needed to feel pain, needed to feel something, to remind himself that he was alive. And rather than let others in, rather than let them realise he was a decent human being as capable of love and compassion as the rest of them, he lashed out and forced them to despise him. He fed on their hatred, allowed it to sustain him, to keep him going, living one miserable day at a time until the fates decided he had suffered long enough.

His love was mangled, perverse, but it was _true_. Idealism painted pictures but they were abstract, romanticised, scenes reality could not replicate. And perhaps her love was a curse, perhaps that was the only comparison that made any sense, but long before she had met Draco, long before she had met Harry and Ron, she had realised she was a creature governed by logic and truth. One could not ignore an answer because it was not ideal, or because it came with unfortunate implications. And, likewise, Hermione could not ignore her impetuous heart

OOO

When she awoke the next morning it was with a renewed sense of purpose and too, for what seemed the first time in days, something resembling a level-head. She immediately wrote to her boss at the Ministry and said she was taking a few days off. Fortunately this would not be a problem. Quite the contrary, in fact, as Hermione was constantly being told by her superiors that she worked too hard and ought to take some time off now and again.

Timothy was waiting for her downstairs in the hotel's main foyer, dressed in faded jeans and a loosely buttoned shirt. He rose to his feet the moment he saw her and gave a nod in way of greeting. They exchanged pleasantries and idle chitchat, Hermione apologising for being so distant the last time they spoke, and then made their way towards the outskirts of Béchar. Civilisation slowly fell away until there was nothing before them but the foreboding desert. There they met with Amar and Yassine and together set off in search of answers.

Whatever hopes and expectations Hermione held, they were difficult to reconcile with the reality of their journey. There was nothing there but sand and heat and wind. In this environment, she could not imagine Draco Malfoy lasting a day let alone the lifetime that seemed to have passed since last she saw him. There were no little mud huts, no villages off the beaten track. Inevitably as they kept walking, and with no signposts or landmarks, it began to feel as if they were going in circles. This was normal, Hermione assured herself, and she took further solace in the purposeful stride of their blind guide, as ludicrous as that sounded.

It was not the waiting that troubled her. It was the silence and the calm before the storm. Hermione was too intelligent not to draw conclusions, too logical and cynical not to think the worst, and as Béchar disappeared from view, the infinite stretch of desert behind them now every bit as foreboding as what lay ahead, every answer she was able to scrape together from the various clues only served to frighten her. It was with hope that she had managed to get this far, but hope died in places like this.

They were in the land of lost souls where a wrong step in any given direction would be their undoing. Even with a wand and a license to Apparate, this knowledge could poison the mind. Every now and again, Amar and Yassine conversed quietly in Arabic, although she could not fathom what it was they were discussing. There was literally _nothing_ out there, of which every moment in this place was a cruel reminder. Feeling paranoid she started to imagine conversations quite out of left field, some strange and barbaric ritual or the prospect that they have led her out here just to rob her blind. What little Muggle money she had was back in her hotel room, tucked beneath her mattress, and though they weren't to know it she had her wand concealed but well within reach.

She took a large glug of water and gently mopped her brow with the back of her hand. She was by now increasingly breathless, thinking to herself that even Draco Malfoy's sordid little games did not contain such a lethal combination of mental and physical torture. Just as she neared her wit's end and began to object, something emerged in the distance. It was minuscule, a mere speck on the horizon, but still, it was _something_ – a break from the monotony of this cursed place.

"Do you see that too?" she asked Timothy, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"I do," he replied, his hand lifting and shielding his eyes from the sun. "Just about."

Hermione picked up her pace, Timothy in tow, falling in line with Amar and Yassine and watching them from the corner of her eye. They both remained quiet and, despite still suffering in the heat, appeared rather calm. When paranoia reared its ugly head it created a direct and volatile conflict between her heart, filled with hope, and her mind, governed as it was by logic and cold, hard facts.

They had come _too_ far.

As they grew closer she began to cover more and more ground, separating from the group because she felt suffocated and needed to breathe. The very air they breathed was treacherous, however, dry, hot, filled with sand, and her mind, plotting a betrayal of its own, began to whisper a very simple truth that she was, until that point at least, wise to ignore. This land of despair befitted Draco. Of all the dark, forgotten corners of the world, this was the deluge in which he chose to drown. Ever the madman, and ever methodical in his madness.

Hermione stopped suddenly and her eyes grew wide. What once was a mere _speck _now loomed large and came into focus. Her face contorted, her disbelieving eyes growing wider still, and she felt sick to her stomach, clammy all over, the very fibres of her being beginning to ache as the decision to live by her hope finally caught up with her. There were no words left to say. The force holding together her heart surrendered, and even her mind, typically armed with simple truths and indisputable logic, took pity on her.

There in the sand two sticks crudely tied together to form a cross. On the left arm of that cross the word _Draco; _on the right, _Malfoy._


End file.
